


like blackthorns that pierce your marble skin

by CrazyAce_n_PokerFace



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyAce_n_PokerFace/pseuds/CrazyAce_n_PokerFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fantasy/steampunk AU where Les Amis is fighting to overthrow the corrupt magocracy and Éponine is fighting to simply make it through the next day, and doesn't have time for revolutionaries who plaster her door with pamphlets and have urgent need of her unerring people-finding skills (even if their hair is golden and their shoulders are broad and oh, damn, she is so, so screwed).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. like stories that end but won't begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Welcome to the first chapter "like that blackthorns tht pierce our marble skin."
> 
> Most of the story be based on the musical/the-movie-of-the-musical, though elements will be borrowed from the book as well, and inspiration taken from a various myriad of conscious and subconscious literary influences.
> 
> Much thanks and gratitude goes to youarethesentinels for beta-ing this story!
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.

**Chapter One: like stories that end but won't begin**

* * *

She goes by Jondrette these days.

(Éponine Thenardier was a lifetime ago and, besides, it's safer not to use your given name in a city jam-packed with mages.)

She lives in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with her two siblings, one sister and one brother. She's forcibly cut ties with her parents, even if they keep on creeping back like particularly pernicious weeds, and one of these days she will simply take an axe to her father and have done with it.

(She wishes but she knows she won't.)

She has three jobs: one at a café as a waitress, one at one of the seedier taverns as a serving wench, and one at the hospital as a maid/messenger/general-odds-and-ends girl, where her not-best-friend Cosette also happens to work. She barely makes enough to pay the rent and feed her siblings, but this is nineteenth-century Paris, and as a woman she's lucky she has work at all, luckier still that it's even legal.

(Sometimes she looks at the way Gav's coat is too big for him and notes how Zelma's dresses are too short, and she's tempted to slip back into old ways and bad habits—but she remembers the looks on their faces the last time she did that and knows that she can't.)

She is twenty years old. She likes the rain. She doesn't like cats (that much).

She wears a bracelet of tin, and this means she is one who can work small magics.

Not an artisan. Not a mundane.

She is a worker, one of the miserable.

* * *

"Gavroche, did you wash behind your ears? Gavroche!"

Her brother merely grins at her as he bites down on a mouthful of bread. He is eleven years old and prone to stuffing his face whenever he has the opportunity, which is more often these days, thank heavens.

Azelma rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't bother; it's not as if anyone cares if he's clean."

"I care," Éponine mutters. They've left the gutters behind them and they ought to at least look the part of respectable citizens, even if the hard edges and sharp scars poverty left on their souls never quite disappear. She grabs hold of her brother's ear and pulls him towards the washing basin. "Come on, you."

"' _Ponine_!" he whines. "Let go!"

"No. You are going to school. You have to look presentable," she says. She thinks,  _You are going to get out of the slums. You are going to be somebody. You are going to have the chances I never had. And by the Virgin, it starts_ now.

Gavroche struggles but ultimately lets her take a rag to his face and scrub away the dirt. "How did you get this dirty?" she grumbles. "You had a bath last night." She'd had to bribe him into it—running water was a luxury they'd recently acquired these past few months, but Gavroche had gotten rather used to taking baths once in a blue moon and didn't appreciate cleanliness as much as Éponine would have preferred.

Azelma giggles, frying a few eggs on their little stove. "Don't you know? Gav's gift is attracting dirt."

"Is not!" their brother says, sticking his tongue out at her.

Éponine gives him one last scrub and deems him presentable. "There you go," she says, smoothing out the collar of his uniform. "Go grab your satchel; we're heading out. Zelma—"

"I know, I know," Azelma interrupts. "Madame Pierron wants me to come in early today, so don't be late." Azelma is sixteen and works at a fancy millinery, sorting pins and stitching beads on hats. She'd rather work at the café and tavern with Éponine—they'd get more money that way—but the older girl isn't going to let the younger tax her fragile health any more than necessary.

Éponine gives her a wry look. "With your tendency to daydream, I have a right to worry."

" _My_  tendency? What about you and the way you sigh over Monsieur Mar—"

"Gav, let's go!" Éponine gives Azelma a quick kiss, collects her brother, and opens the door, ushering them out to another day with their sister's laughter following them.

* * *

"You look dead on your feet, Éponine."

Éponine stops scrubbing at the tables long enough to look over her shoulder at Musichetta. "And you look like you spent last night deep in the cups, and probably cozy with a boy to boot, if that mark on your neck is anything to go by."

Musichetta laughs, the sound light and bold and absolutely shameless. "But my dear Éponine, at least I'm living! You look like something the necromancers would love to study—that's never a good sign, darling."

Éponine shrugs. "There was a brawl at the tavern last night right before closing. Glass got broken and Roberge had me cleaning the mess. I got home a little later than usual."

Musichetta clicks her tongue in sympathy. "Why are you still working there? With Zelma's new job, I thought this one and the hospital would be enough to pay the rent."

"Gav's scholarship doesn't cover all his books."

"But surely Monsieur Fauchelevent would help—"

"He's done enough for us," Éponine cuts her off. And he has, more than enough really. Monsieur Fauchelevent got Gavroche the scholarship, paid for his uniform and shoes, introduced Azelma to Madame Pierron, and wrote the recommendation to the nuns who run the hospital where she works on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Honestly, he could have just ordered them to hire her, since they practically worship the ground he walks on. The man is a saint.

And Éponine is grateful, she really is, but charity has never sat well with her (though she would beg, she would lie, she would steal, she would murder to give her siblings a future, and damn her pride and damn her soul). She wants to provide for her family as much as she can, and she's not going to impose on the sympathy of Monsieur Fauchelevent and Cosette any more than she has to.

Musichetta gives her a look, and lifts one dark-skinned shoulder. "Whatever you say, darling." She tosses her hair back, the black, springy curls barely contained under the fancy cap that's part of their uniform. Her eyes flick to the door and she grins, pleased and vaguely predatory. "Oh, now here's something to brighten your day."

Éponine straightens as the bell over the door rings out, signaling a new customer. She turns around a plasters a smile on her face. "Bonjour, Mon—Monsieur Marius!"

Upon seeing him, she nervously smoothes her hands over her skirt, wishing a customer hadn't spilled coffee on it earlier and that she'd had time to brush her hair this morning and that Musichetta was really exaggerating about her looking like a corpse—

"Good morning, Éponine!" Marius says, smiling at her and taking her hand to place a kiss on the back on it, as if she didn't wear a bracelet of tin that clashed with his bracelet of silver.

She drops her gaze to the floor and bites her lip to hide her smile. "It's good to see you," she says softly.

"What, no greeting for me?" says the boy next to him, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. "Did Bahorel place a concealment charm on me? Because I know I'm not powerful enough to accidentally turn myself invisible."

Éponine sheepishly bobs her head at Courfeyrac. "Hello, Monsieur Courfeyrac. Would you two like to be seated at your usual spot?"

The boys nod, and she seats them at their favorite table by the window, leaving two menus with them before retreating to the kitchens, where Musichetta is laughing at her.

"Shut. Up," she growls, taking off her cap and running her hands through her hair.

"I can't help it! The look on your face! Merde, you lit up like a fireworks show the minute you saw him!" the older girl says, bent over with her hands on her knees, still giggling. "Honestly, you should just invite him to the alley behind the café. I'd cover for you."

"It's not like that!" Éponine hisses. She tubs her tin bracelet. "Nothing would ever happen between he and I."

Musichetta straightens, her eyes turning sober. "It's not against the law for a worker and an artisan to see each other."

"Oh, and we all know how much people value the law," Éponine scoffs. She runs a hand through her hair and replaces her cap, sighing. "Come on, the boys will be expecting their order."

"Chocolate-covered croissants and black coffee?" Musichetta says, letting the subject drop, though her eyes still retained a hint of seriousness.

"Yup. You know they never order anything else," she says, grinning.

* * *

"What would you have done if we'd decided we wanted fried eggs and toast?" Courfeyrac demands. "Or one of these fancy sandwiches?" He waves the menu at her.

She rolls her eyes. "You have been coming here for six months, and neither of you have ever ordered anything besides this." She gestures to their plates before putting a little pot of sugar and a cup of cream on the table.

Courfeyrac glares at them. "We take our coffee black!" he announces, as if she hasn't noticed the way they wince whenever they actually attempt to do so. Boys and their strange notions of masculinity. She wonders who they're trying to emulate—oh, wait. It's probably  _him_.

She covers up her quick grimace by picking up the menus and giving them one last curtsey. "Monsieurs," she says, "enjoy your meal."

Marius gives her another smile that sends her heart racing. "Thank you, Éponine, but no need to curtsey to us. We're only mages-in-training, and not very good ones at that."

She answers with a close-lipped smile of her own and says nothing in reply.

She goes about serving other customers in the café, but watches the two of them from the corner of her eye until they leave a few minutes later.

The warmth kindled by the gentleness in Marius's green eyes stays with her for hours.

* * *

Her shift ends at four in the afternoon, and her work at the tavern doesn't start until seven in the evening, so she heads home to make sure Gavroche is staying out of trouble.

Thankfully, he's there and scowling at one of his schoolbooks instead of out on the streets, playing with the other gamins. Azelma is with him, a few hats from the shop ranged around her, and she is patiently sewing a few dyed feathers on one made of black velvet. Éponine thinks it looks hideous—dear God, what is with the artisans and their love of ugly clothing? She shakes her head and takes off her shoes.

"Welcome home, Ponine!" Gavroche says. "I put a tack on Monsieur Mellour's chair! And when he sat down on it, he squealed like a stuck pig!"

"Gavroche!" she exclaims.

"What? He didn't see me," Gavroche says. "I had my glamour on."

She rubs her forehead. "That's not the problem." The teachers dislike them enough as it is without Gavroche indulging in tricks that could get him expelled.

"He's mean to me and the other scholarship boys," Gavroche says, his eyes darkening and his words starting to slip back into the speech patterns of the street. "He calls us gutter trash an' worker scum an' knack-knockers like we're supposed to just sit there an' take it. Well, I won't, and I showed 'im what-for, din't I?"

The sound of the hurt beneath his anger twists something in Éponine's gut.

She reaches over and cards a hand through his hair, the touch gentle, reassuring. "How loudly did he squeal?" she asks.

Gavroche chuckles and proceeds to demonstrate. The three of them are all doing their best impersonations when a knock sounds at the door.

Éponine shushes them and goes over to open it cautiously. She smiles widely once she sees who their visitor is. "Monsieur Fauchelevent! Welcome! Come in, come in," she says, throwing the door open and letting him in.

The gentleman looks oddly at home in their little apartment, despite his large, physically imposing frame and his fine clothes. Éponine supposes it's because he possesses the kind of self-assurance that makes him at ease anywhere he goes, though she notices that his confidence is irrevocably wed to acute awareness of his surroundings. He has the touch of the streets upon him, with how he always keeps track of exits in any room and doesn't like having his back to a door or other people.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Fauchelevent," Gavroche says brightly.

The older man smiles back. "Good afternoon, Gavroche. How are your studies going?"

Éponine and Azelma exchange amused glances as their brother grimaces. "Monsieur, school is boring!" he complains. "Especially history!"

Monsieur Fauchelevent laughs. "Oh, but surely you learn about interesting things like battles and assassinations and how the Mage Councils of old could raise armies of the dead and set cities on fire."

Gavroche scowls. "Monsieur Mellour could make even the Hundred Years' War and Saint Jeanne d'Arc sound boring, and she was the greatest earth mage in history! I don't know how he can do it, if it's a spell or enchantment or what, but he can!"

"I hope you try and stay awake anyway," Monsieur Fauchelevent says kindly. "School is important."

Gavroche nods and Monsieur Fauchelevent turns his hazel-eyed gaze on Éponine. "Éponine, one of the nurses at the hospital is getting married and has decided to retire, and the nuns were wondering if you would like to have full-time hours, now that they'll be short of hand?"

Éponine wonders how he does this, how he knows not to offer her money point-blank, but instead creates opportunities for her to earn what she needs anyway. "I'd be happy to do so, Monsieur."

He beams at her. "Good. Now, Cosette's birthday is coming up, and I was wondering if you all would be available next Saturday…?"

"Will there be cake?" Gavroche demands.

"Of course," Monsieur Fauchelevent says.

"Chocolate?" he asks hopefully.

"And strawberry," the man answers.

Azelma and Gavroche turn hopeful eyes on Éponine, who mock-frowns and says, "Only if you brush your teeth afterwards! And for heaven's sake, wash behind your ears!"

All four of them erupt with laughter, and Monsieur Fauchelevent leaves their home with a hug from Gavroche, a grin from Azelma, and Éponine's solemn-faced, laughing-eyed promise that they will come, of course they will come.

There is cake to be had, after all, and who can resist that?

* * *

Later, as the whistles of the distant trains pierce the night like the screeches of owls, she walks along the lamp-lit streets, humming softly to herself. The tavern closed early today, Roberge actually gave her a few extra sous for working past her shift the night before (she thinks it has more to do with her informing him of potentially quitting now that she has a steadier position at the hospital), and none of the patrons groped her or spilled drinks on her skirts. All in all, it's been a good day.

She pulls out a pocket-watch (her one possession of any value—it's from Cosette, of course; the other girl had used her kitten-eyes and she'd found herself incapable of refusing) and checks the hour. It is a few minutes before midnight—she has a little bit of time to herself.

She closes her eyes and mentally reaches within herself to find a warmly glowing thread, bright and earnest and ever so beloved. She gives it a small tug and follows where it leads, her steps sure and steady, as confident of her direction as a compass facing north.

After a few twists and turns down familiar streets, her lips quirk in a knowing smile. Really, she doesn't even know why she bothers using her magic to find him when he's always in the same place, predictable as the sun rising in the east and wild magic waxing with the moon. She continues tugging on the thread anyway, feeling a thrill at this secret connection between them, near-tangible proof of her attachment to him (and his to her, she imagines).

She stops in front of La Musain just as his laughter pours out of the second-story window, loud and carefree and entirely oblivious. He sounds like a child, she thinks.

He's wonderful, she thinks.

She leans against the opposite wall and basks in the sound, closing her eyes and pretending he's laughing just for her.

 _Marius. Marius. Marius_ , whispers her heart.

Unfortunately, another familiar presence pricks along her senses, its owner's thread jangling alongside Marius's as he approaches.

Cursing softly to herself, she melts away into the alleyways and shadows, retreating before the man comes into view.

She leaves as easily as she came, but not before she catches a glimpse of golden hair and a fire mage's swirling red cloak, which is settled comfortably on a pair of broad shoulders belonging to a boy who is really much more trouble than he's worth.

(Though they are nice shoulders, she'll give him that, and he certainly knows how to wear his clothes, but still.)

She has no desire to come face to face with Enjolras tonight—after all, it had been  _such_  a good day.

* * *

They've left a lamp on for her when she gets home, one of Gavroche's latest school projects. Complain as his teachers might about his marks in maths or history, in mage-craft he's twice as gifted as any other student. She reaches up and dims it with a touch, the familiar glow of her brother's magic fading with it, and walks into the bedroom, navigating her way in the dark. She tries to make as little noise as possible, but she still rouses one of her siblings.

"Ponine?" Azelma murmurs, turning sleepily to face her.

"Shhh," Éponine replies soothingly. "It's alright, it's just me. Go back to sleep."

"Mmn." Her sister obediently does so, curling her slight body around Gavroche's on their narrow bed. Gavroche mutters in his sleep and spits out a few bits of her hair, but he doesn't relinquish his tight hold on her arms.

Éponine shakes her head fondly. Honestly, those two. What was the point of getting Gavroche his own little cot in the corner if he was just going to crawl into bed with her or Azelma?

She pulls the blanket over them and tucks it in, then presses a kiss to both their foreheads, the threads connecting them to her humming softly in the dark and winding themselves tight around her heart.

She makes her way to her own bed and closes her eyes, lulled to sleep by the sound of her siblings' breathing and the gentle pull of their heartbeats on hers, just like always.

One more day, successfully survived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endnote: Thank you for reading and please review! :D


	2. like wine on your tongue and whispers on the wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Welcome to the second chapter of like blackthorns that pierce your marble skin! Thank you for reading!
> 
> As always, much thanks and gratitude goes to unicornesque (youarethesentinels on tumblr) for beta-ing this story! She's amazing! Please go and check out her work, if you have not done so already (though who are we kidding? If you're an Enjonine fan, you KNOW who she is). :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.

**Chapter Two: like wine on your tongue and whispers on the wind**

* * *

He goes by Enjolras these days. Just Enjolras.

(He hasn't been Gabriel in what feels like forever, though really it's only been four years.)

He lives in a townhouse by himself. It used to belong to his uncle, who gave it his mother when she married, who gave it to him when he turned eighteen. It's spartan and clean and not particularly homey, but then it isn't meant to be. His friends sleep in the guest bedroom sometimes if they've had too much wine—they're the closest thing to a family he has nowadays. He has burned all bridges with his father, and he plans to keep it that way.

(He hasn't had a family since his mother and sister died from the gray fever. That day, he left his father's house with nothing but his father's name, and he  _will_ forge something better from the ashes.)

He is a student at the University of Paris, specifically the College of Mage-craft, and his professors hail him as one of the greatest talents of his generation. They predict he will go into law, or politics, or even the study of magic at its highest levels; whatever he chooses, they are certain that he will go far. He is meant for great things, they tell him. Why, he might even serve upon the High Council and direct the course of history one day!

(He says nothing in reply and his silence is as loud as a shout.)

He is twenty-four years old. He lives for his country. He will die for her, too.

He wears a triple-band of gold around his upper arm, and this means he is thrice-blessed.

He is an enchanter, a barrier-raiser, a fire-starter.

He is a revolution waiting to happen.

* * *

Enjolras enters La Musain an hour later than usual, having received unexpected and troubling news earlier at his monthly visit to General Lamarque's house. His friends are already gathered there and well into their cups, if the noise level is any indication. He shrugs off his red cloak as he takes in the scene.

"Well, look who's finally here! The man of the hour!" Courfeyrac shouts gleefully when he catches sight of him, raising his glass.

Enjolras merely lifts one brow in disbelief.

"Oh, come now! Don't look like that. You're the youngest mage to be promoted to the upper ranks in fifty years! What's not to celebrate?" Courfeyrac says.

"The fact that I don't even want the recognition?" he replies dryly.

"Minor details!" Courfeyrac yells. "It's an accomplishment either way! We still should celebrate! More wine for everybody!"

"Here, here!" Grantaire says, taking the opportunity to grab another bottle.

His friends cheer even louder, and Enjolras shakes his head and makes his way over to Combeferre, who smirks at him. "You would be the one late to a party held in your honor," he says.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "I didn't ask them to turn our weekly meeting into a drunken revel for something pointless. I probably only got the position because the magisters remember who my father is, and how deep his pockets are," he says scathingly.

Combeferre laughs, the sound soft but steady. "Oh, and being a thrice-blessed genius had nothing to do with it? Something pointless, you say! As if being a mage of the First Order isn't something half the people in France would give their right arm for."

Enjolras feels just the slightest tug of guilt at his best friend's wistful expression, eyes dropping to the smooth band of copper around his wrist, signifying his status as an arcanist—one who studied magic but couldn't use it, possessing only the minute amounts to power small charms and spells, the same as any other mundane.

Combeferre catches the direction of his gaze and shakes his head. "Don't worry, my friend. Tonight is your night! Let us celebrate."

Enjolras shrugs. "I would much rather talk of the industrialists' latest petition," he says, speaking of the growing group of mundanes whose new inventions are beginning to change the landscape and whose resulting riches are making them a political force to be reckoned with.

Courfeyrac overhears him and groans. "Enjolras! This is a party! Stop talking politics!"

"This is Enjolras we're talking about," Joly says. "Asking him to stop talking about politics is like asking the sun to stop shining."

Bahorel laughs, the sound loud and booming. "Besides, if it  _is_  his party, we should at least let the man have his say."

"But he always has his say anyway!" Courfeyrac protests. He shoves a drink into Enjolras's hand. "Here! If you're going to talk poor Combeferre's ear off, the least you could do is have a drink while you're at it." He saunters off to wear Marius is laughing at Grantaire's stories, muttering under his breath about repressed fire-mages and their tendency to explode if not properly de-stressed.

Enjolras gives his back a withering glare and shoves the glass towards Bahorel, who takes it with a grin. "As I was saying, the industrialists want seats on the Lower Council, not that they're likely to get them. No mundane has ever held a place on the Mage Council, High or Lower, and they never will—not without a revolution first."

Combeferre notes the gleam of fiery passion in his friend's eyes at the last word. "So you think we should start making overtures to the industrialists?"

"Yes," Enjolras says. "They have as much to gain from a new republic as we would, more even. The Mage Council is afraid of change; they barely tolerate the steam engine trains as it is, and the industrialists have plans to build flying ships, ever-burning lamps, even automatons that don't run on magic."

Combeferre grins. "And we all know that there's nothing more that the Mage Council hates than the idea of mundanes not being dependent on magic."

Enjolras nods. "And the industrialists are well aware of it."

"But whom to ask?" Combeferre muses.

Feiully speaks up from his corner. "My family works at a factory owned by an industrialist. A good man. His name is Monsieur Fauchelevent."

Combeferre raises his brows. "The mysterious philanthropist? I wasn't aware he was an industrialist."

Feiully shrugs. "He likes to keep a low profile. But he's been kind to my family, and he cares for his workers. Even if he doesn't join our rebellion, I think my father's overseer can ask him to introduce me to industrialists who will."

"Do so," Enjolras commands before changing the subject. "I heard today that the Mage Council is thinking of implementing new measures against the mundanes and workers," he says. "They want to cut down the rations and goods available to them—with the famine we've been experiencing, it's insanity. How are they supposed to feed their families if the government already refuses to let them work in any decent-paying jobs, and on top of that takes away the emergency measures in place to keep them from starving?"

Combeferre frowns. "Surely the Council won't pass those measures. Lamarque would never stand for it," he says, naming the mage-general who sometimes seems like the only person in power who even thinks of the people, much less hears their concerns. All of the Les Amis regard him as a personal hero, and Enjolras actually knows the man behind the rank. Lamarque had been friends with his mother's family for years, and had taken the time to be kind to an awestruck Enjolras when he had been but a child, and later graced him with a patronage after he entered formal mage schooling. Sometimes Enjolras thinks Lamarque had more of a hand shaping him into the man he is today than his own father did.

But now…

Enjolras sets his mouth in a grim line. "He might not be around to stop it."

"What do you mean?" Combeferre asks.

"Lamarque is dying," he says, his expression pained.

Combeferre's eyes widen. "How?"

Enjolras expels a weary sigh. "It's simply age—and his health never has been all that good, ever since the outbreak of the Red Death five years ago. He barely survived it, and only then because he had access to the best healers in the country. They've already done all they can, and he says that it is simply time. He told his household the news today."

Combeferre places a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Enjolras."

"Don't be," he replies. "I won't let his cause die with him."

And that, he knows, is a promise he makes on his very life.

Combeferre raises his glass. "To Lamarque," he says.

"To Lamarque," Enjolras echoes.

 _Soon_ , he thinks.  _The revolution will happen soon._

* * *

A few days later, he is walking down the street, past a line of shops that cater to artisans and mages, when one of the proprietors throws a girl out the door onto the cobblestones.

"Get out! We don't serve your kind here!" the man shouts, and the girl reflexively lifts her arms to protect her head. "Filthy worker!" He shakes his fist at her, the bronze bracelet marking him as an artisan glinting dully in the afternoon sun.

Enjolras marches forward, anger lengthening his stride and roughening his voice. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands. "Since when is a citizen of France forbidden from entering any shop she so chooses?"

The man turns angrily in his direction. "Since the dirty thieves keep trying to crawl in! I run a respectable shop! Who do you think you are to—" He cuts off in mid-speech, eyes widening as he takes in Enjolras's red cloak and the three thick bands of gold around his right upper arm. "I-I'm sorry, Monsieur! I didn't see you! Please forgive my impertinence!" The man quickly bows, face pale with fear.

Enjolras's anger fades into disgusted pity. Mon Dieu, how rotten is their system, that an artisan would yell at a worker merely for entering his shop, and then cower before a mage as if he is afraid he would be struck down where he stood?

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to," he says curtly. He walks toward the girl, extending his hand to help her up. "Mademoiselle, if you would— _Jondrette_?"

The girl—Marius's shadow, as Courfeyrac and the others have dubbed her—glares up at him and ignores his outstretched hand. She stands and dusts off her skirts, clutching a small purse in one hand and a tattered looking cap in the other, which she affixes to her head at a jaunty angle. "Monsieur Enjolras," she says, dipping her head, her tone a shade too icy to be considered perfectly polite.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his words more brusque than intended from surprise.

"What?" she says crankily. "If I were some ordinary worker, it would be fine to 'enter any shop I choose,' but now that you know it's me, I suddenly don't have the right to even be here?"

"That's not what I meant," he says, exasperated. "It's simply rare to find you in this part of town—"

"Oh, you silver-tongues are all the same, thinking you own the streets and can demand that we answer for our presence—"

"Were you even listening to a word I said?" Enjolras says, fast losing his patience.  _Why is it always this girl?_  he thinks to himself.  _What did_  I  _ever do to her? I've spent nearly my whole life trying to help people like her!_

The shopkeeper glares at Jondrette. "Show some respect, worker! This is a mage! Stop acting like an animal!"

Jondrette bares her teeth at him and hisses. The man takes a step back, alarmed, and the gamine smirks, satisfaction written in every line of her face.

At least until she catches sight of Enjolras's incredulous expression, upon which her smirk transforms into a scowl as quickly as morning mist fades under the noon-day sun.

Alright, what _is_  the matter with her?

"What is the matter with you?!" shouts the shopkeeper.

"You kicked me out of the damn shop, that's what!" she shouts back. "I even had money for the handkerchiefs, you selfish swine!"

The shopkeeper's face is turning purple from rage, and Enjolras decides it's time to intervene.

"Monsieur," he says, tucking his hand beneath Jondrette's elbow and ignoring her glare, "Would you please let this young lady back into your shop? She has the money to pay for your goods, so she has as much right to be here as any artisan or mage."

"Of course, Monsieur!" the man says, bowing again, but Enjolras catches the glare he sends in the girl's direction.

"Mademoiselle Jondrette?" Enjolras prods, hoping to prevent her from doing anything rash.

She jerks her arm away from his hand and stalks into the shop. "Obsequious little sycophant," she mutters under her breath, matching the owner's glare with a venomous glance of her own.

Enjolras finds himself mildly surprised at her vocabulary. "I didn't even know you knew what that meant."

Unexpectedly, Jondrette blushes, bright color suffusing her tanned skin, and she tilts her head so the lush, dark-chocolate-colored fall of her hair obscures her face from his view. He's seen other young women coyly effect the exact same movement, but the genuine shyness in her manner is somehow more appealing.

"Courfeyrac used it to complain about one of his classmates," she explains. "I like words, especially big ones, so I remembered it. Even better, it's an insult."

"I see," he says dryly. That does sound like something Courfeyrac would say.

Enjolras glances around the shop, noting that it's one of those that cater to women. He used to accompany his mother and sister to such places before, with scarves and gloves and ribbons draped across every surface like colorful butterflies.

He balks once he suddenly notices that he has followed Jondrette to the corner of the shop reserved for…delicate items.

Jondrette gives a sharp bark of laughter upon seeing his expression. "Regretting playing the hero, Monsieur?" she says cheekily. "You didn't need to accompany me."

"It was my duty, Mademoiselle," he replies stiffly, keeping his eyes averted and his hands clasped behind his back. "The way the shopkeeper was treating you was deplorable. It was best I stayed to ensure you received decent service."

"Mmm," she hums noncommittally. She reaches out to touch a nightgown made of lace, fingering the sleeve and sighing softly, the sound appreciative.

"I don't think that would suit you," he blurts out. "It's not even your size."

She arches a brow at him, and he wonders when he turned into Pontmercy of all people, putting his foot in his mouth like it belongs there.

"It wouldn't be for me," she says after a moment of watching him shift in discomfort (he was  _not_  squirming—he is incapable of squirming, in fact). "I'm here to buy a gift for my friend. It's her birthday this coming Saturday. A thing like that would be perfect for her." She glances wistfully at the gown before shooting a wicked smile in his direction. "Especially since it  _is_ her size, Monsieur. She's both a few inches shorter than I and a little more…blessed by the Lord, shall we say?" she says, gesturing towards her chest.

He abruptly snaps his gaze away from her and hopes she doesn't notice how his face has turned the same color as his cloak. From her quiet snickers, his hopes are in vain, however.

"I knew there was a reason why I told Pontmercy that you were an unnecessary distraction," he mutters.

Jondrette glowers at him. "It's none of your business who Monsieur Marius chooses to spend his time with."

" _Whom_ Monsieur Marius chooses to spend his time with," he automatically corrects. "And it  _is_ my business. We have reforms to plan, causes to champion—he has no time to spend with you."

Her glare intensifies. "I only see him at the café," she grinds out.

"And whenever you 'drop by' La Musain to give him a forgotten scarf or handkerchief," Enjolras replies scathingly.

"He's a forgetful person!" she says, indignant. "And all I want to do is look out for him! He's my friend, too, you know!"

"Do you look after all your friends so well, Mademoiselle?" he asks, his tone mocking.

Jondrette's face suffuses with color once more, this time from anger instead of embarrassment. "Better than you," she says, suddenly grabbing three lace handkerchiefs and making her way to the counter.

"What does that mean?" he demands, following after her.

She ignores him, placing the items in front of the shop girl—a mundane, it seems, judging by the iron bracelet around her wrist—and slamming down a few francs. "Wrap them, please. In pink paper if you have it," she says curtly.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," the girl says, sneaking an admiring glance in Enjolras's direction.

He doesn't notice, mostly immune to such reactions, and keeps his focus on Jondrette. "What do you mean by that?" he repeats, his voice low and heated.

She turns to face him, lifting her chin. "I mean that I am a better friend than you will ever be. You'll lead those boys to jail or worse," she declares. "With your pretty speeches and angry pamphlets and all this planning for a worthless cause, you'll find nothing but trouble, mark my words."

"Oh, are you an augur, now, that you can predict the future?" he shoots back, incensed despite himself. "And who are you to deem our cause worthless? We fight for you and others like you! Do you honestly think that change isn't necessary? Do you like being kicked out of shops and refused service even when you have the money to pay for it? Would you prefer to stay a second-class citizen, merely because you wear a bracelet of tin and not one of bronze? Do you honestly wish to endure the scorn of the artisans and the hatred of the mundanes, waiting until the day they finally decide to deal with your people the same way they dealt with the elder r—"

The sound of her open palm hitting his cheek crackles through the air, accompanied a few seconds later by the shop girl's gasp, similar to the way thunder follows lightning.

He gapes at her, more surprised at her daring rather than the blow itself.

Her chest is heaving and her eyes are fiery as she stands there, glaring at him. "Don't you dare. Don't you  _dare_ assume you know anything about my life, or what I have suffered, or what I can or can't endure. What would  _you_  know,  _enchanter_? You with your silver tongue and your fancy barriers and your fire-starter's cloak? You, who have never gone hungry, or slept on the streets in winter, or begged for coins to buy even a mouthful of bread?

"Yes, I'm a second-class citizen. Yes, I hate it. But it's better to be alive and keep my head down and survive one more damned day than lie dead in the streets because I couldn't keep my mouth shut, and tried to make a difference when everyone  _knows_  nothing will ever change," she spits out.

She grabs the little package of handkerchiefs and storms out the door, not even bothering to glance behind her.

If she had, she would have been treated to the vanishingly rare sight of Enjolras, completely speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endnote: For those who are curious, the following is my definition of steampunk: a Victorian-era-inspired sci-fi what-if genre where the world is powered primarily by steam engines...hence the name. :D Tends to have anachronistic inventions within an 1800s-esque setting, like planes and automatons and submarines powered by steam, or just random cool things like laser guns and night-vision goggles and…stuff. Which is not powered by steam, but is, uh, there anyway (don't ask me how, books are powered by paper and imagination, not necessarily logic, and I've seen it around and it looked cool…)? Examples include Scott Westerfield's Leviathan and Cassandra Clare's Infernal Devices for you teen lit fans, and Hiromu Arakawa's Fullmetal Alchemist, for you manga/anime fans. This world will be mostly magic-centered, but steampunk does play an important role, as I hope this chapter demonstrates. :D
> 
> Anyway, we're glad you've read our work and we hope you have enjoyed/are enjoying/will continue to enjoy it. :)
> 
> Thank you so much, and please review! Pretty, pretty please? :)


	3. like shades from the past that won't be forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Welcome to the third chapter of like blackthorns that pierce your marble skin. Thank you for reading!
> 
> As always, much thanks and gratitude goes to unicornesque (youarethesentinels on tumblr) for beta-ing this story! Go and say thank you, she made sure there was direct Enjonine in this chapter. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.

**Chapter Three: like shades from the past that won't be forgotten**

* * *

Éponine comes from a family of gifted workers.

Her father is the city's best charmspeaker, her mother can create glamours so strong they last for hours, her sister can cast illusions to hide and conceal, and her brother can turn invisible and walk through walls with enough effort.

And what of her? What can she do?

She finds people. That's it. That's all.

In a family whose talents lie in fantasies, in lies, in blurring the lines between dreams and reality so well that one can't tell where one ends and the other begins, her magic managed to manifest itself as something laughingly, startlingly direct.

The irony of it isn't lost on her.

* * *

She storms through the streets, her heartbeat pounding in her ears like the drummer boys' calls on the battlefield, black anger pouring through her veins like poison.

A man jostles against her, not paying attention to where he's walking, and she's too furious to check the band around his wrist before she pushes back.

"Watch where you're going!" she yells.

" _You_  watch it," he angrily replies. "Slum whore!"

She takes a step forward, teeth bared, hands fisted, eyes wild—

—and thinks of Gavroche, of Azelma, of all the words she'd just yelled at that  _thrice-damned_  mage's stupid face.

_Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut. One more day. You can survive one more day._

Her shoulders slump, and she lowers her head and her voice. "Pardon me, Monsieur," she says, pulling on every sliver of acting and trick of deception her mother had taught her.  _Be submissive. Be helpless. Men of power like that, and men of weakness like it more_ , her mother had told her. "It was clumsy of me to run into you. Forgive me, please." She throws in a curtsey to bring the point home.

And it works, like it always does, the man with his bracelet of iron stepping back, his expression faintly satisfied. He's not as high-ranking as bronze, no, but there are more mundanes than magic-users, and what could one worker bring to bear against strength in numbers? No, it's a good thing she backed down.

"Just watch your step next time," he says, magnanimous, taking her apology as his due.

She nods, and he brushes by her, deliberately stroking the curve of her backside as he does so. She grits her teeth and bears it, pushing down the anger. She's dealt with worse.

Besides, the heavy pouch of coins she nicked from the bastard's pocket is some consolation—she's a  _mostly_ reformed thief, after all. Wouldn't do to let her skills completely fade.

Never know when you're going to need them.

* * *

She sticks to the edge of the pavement from then on, avoiding any more collisions until she gets home.

"Zelma? Gav? I'm back. Got the handkerchiefs, too, so you can start—oh!" She starts upon seeing their unexpected visitor. "Inspector Javert!"

The strict, intimidating head of Paris's Low Inquisition, the police task force specially assigned to deal with workers, artisans, and the elder-race remnants, was standing by their dirty little kitchen window while her siblings sat at the table, Azelma nervously clutching a cup of tea, Gavroche mutinously kicking at his chair, eyes darting from her to Javert to the door in a restless circle.

The leader of the men known as the watchdogs, the stray-seekers, and the left hand of the law turns to face her. "I have a case for you, Thénardier," he says without any preamble.

"It's Jondrette now," she says automatically, resisting the urge to fiddle with her bracelet. "We've left our family behind us."

Javert gives a disdainful sniff. "Perhaps. But once a thief, always a thief." His hand drops briefly to the cold iron cuffs he carries at his side, the rune-markings on them designed to suppress a person's magic.

Azelma sees the motion and whimpers.

"Enough!" Éponine says, her anger boiling up again and causing her to ignore the warning bells in her head that remind her that Javert is  _not_ a man she can afford to cross. "State your business and leave. We have done nothing wrong."

He stares at her impassively, and suddenly the weight of the ill-gotten coins in her pocket feels ten times heavier. She forces herself to keep her hands at her side and her posture loose, confident, ready for a fight but not asking for one.

"I need you to track someone for me," he says eventually.

"Why? Can't you do it yourself? You're a better tracker than I am," she replies, annoyed. This is a lie, but pretending to be only half as skilled as she actually is has kept her alive this long. If Javert knew just how good she is, she'd be in an iron collar for sure, since Javert puts the greater good above common decency, and there's no law protecting former thieves from being used as bloodhounds for the Inquisition whether they want to or not.

As it is, her instinct tells her Javert already has his suspicions about the force of her gift, and she says a quick thank you to the Virgin that she'd spent most of yesterday tracking Gavroche through the city when he ran off with his friends, and so her gift is drained today if Javert decides to use her bracelet and test the level of her strength.

Javert's eyes narrow. "True. But since your gift is weaker, the subject won't be aware that you're tracking them. The person I want you to follow—"

"Follow!" she bursts out. "Mon Dieu, do you know how much energy that takes?"

He looks at her steadily. "A significant amount, yes. You will be satisfactorily compensated, of course."

Éponine sucks in a breath. Whatever one could say about Javert's methods, at least the man was fair—he'd never cheated her, that much is true. "How much?" she asks.

"Five francs a week."

She barely manages to keep her face from betraying her surprise. An unskilled laborer could make thirty francs a month—five francs a week was more than half of that, a veritable fortune for her and her siblings. "Ten francs," she says instead, haggling coming to her as naturally as breathing.

Javert frowns. "Eight, and no more than that."

Gavroche barely manages to hide his grin, and even Azelma looks more than a little tempted. Éponine nods and strides forward, spitting in her hand and holding it out for Javert to shake.

He eyes it a little distastefully, but spits in his own and takes hers.

"On your word as a man of the law?" she asks.

"On my word as a man of the law."

"Then I hold you to it, Inspector Javert, as I hold myself to follow whom you name, upon—"

"Your siblings' names," Javert interrupts.

Éponine's lips thin, but she says it. "Upon my siblings' names."

She feels the quick tingle of magic that flares up at the simple but binding oath. She quickly lets go and wipes her palm on her skirt as Javert takes out a handkerchief and does the same.

"So," she asks, "who do you want me to follow?"

"Her name is Cosette Fauchelevent," Javert says.

Éponine freezes and Azelma lets out a gasp of surprise, and Javert turns to glance between the two of them.

"Do you know her?" he asks.

"In passing," she replies in as steady a voice as she can manage. "She works at the same hospital as I. A healer. Her father, he's a generous man. He paid for Gavroche's schooling." It's best to give him the information now before he finds out for himself and suspects they have something to hide.  _The first rule about deception is to make it so obvious it's ordinary_ , her mother's voice says in her head. "Why do you want her followed?"

He doesn't answer her directly. "She's a healer born to a mundane. You do not find that suspicious?"

"No," she says, her throat suddenly dry. "It's happened before. Someone on her mother's side was probably a mage's bastard."

"Not her father's?" he queries.

Éponine has a terrible feeling that she knows where this is going, memories of the first time she ever met Javert coming to mind—hotly in pursuit of a man named Jean Valjean, so intimidating on his fine horse and in his shiny uniform, the only tracker other than herself she'd ever seen. "Monsieur Fauchelevent? He's as mundane as they come. Barely enough magic in him to power even the slightest spell. No, she gets it from her mother. Her looks, too, from what I can see."

"Yeah," Gavroche interrupts. "Mademoiselle Fauchelevent's too pretty to take after her father. She looks like an angel."

Javert absorbs the information and nods. "Be that as it may, she's refused the Low Council's offer of a gold bracelet. It's suspicious behavior in these…uncertain times. It could attract the wrong kind of attention, and healers of her caliber are rare. Keep a close eye on her, Thénardier."

With that, he dons his cap, nods at the three of them, and exits their home.

As soon as the last of his footsteps fades away, Azelma stands up, wringing her hands. "Éponine, what are we going to do?"

"Shh," Éponine says, coming over to envelope her in a tight embrace, drawing Gavroche to them with her other arm. "We'll tell her at the party this Saturday. Monsieur Fauchelevent will know how to protect her." She presses a kiss to Azelma's forehead before forcing a smile onto her face. "Now, are you ready to embroider her name on these kerchiefs? You know I'm terrible when it comes to sewing."

Azelma and Gavroche are momentarily distracted, eager to see the gifts she's picked out on their behalf, and she pushes Javert's visit to the back of her mind to save until Saturday.

* * *

On Thursday, Marius leaves another one of his scarves at the café.

Éponine holds it tight in her hands and bites her lip, Enjolras's scathing words still echoing in her ears.

Should she…?

"Just drop it off like usual," Musichetta says, interrupting her thoughts with a wink. "I swear he leaves them just so he can see you when you give it back."

"You think so?" she asks.

Musichetta rolls her eyes. "For a boy to be  _that_ forgetful, he has to be doing it on purpose."

Éponine feels hope—that most dangerous and deadly of emotions—rise tentatively in her chest. "Alright," she says. "I will."

* * *

Later that night, on her way home from the hospital, she slips in through the back door of La Musain and makes her way up the stairs, stealthy as a shadow.

Marius is in the corner, talking excitedly with Bahorel and Courfeyrac. Enjolras, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen, so Éponine quietly tugs on the string between her and Marius, using just the barest hint of a whisper of power.

It's enough to draw Marius's attention, though she does it subtly enough that he probably isn't aware why. Nevertheless, his eyes snap to where she's standing by the stairs, and his face brightens in an automatic grin. "Éponine!" he exclaims. "What are you doing here?"

She smiles back as he ambles eagerly to her, and holds out his scarf. "You forgot this," she says softly, keeping her eyes trained on his face.

He takes it and gives her a quick hug. "Thank you, Ponine! I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You forgot another scarf?" Courfeyrac yells. "What's wrong with you, Marius?"

The other Les Amis snicker and Marius sheepishly ducks his head.

Éponine places a hand on her hip. "I seem to recall bringing a certain someone a spellbook he left behind last week," she archly replies.

"Ah, but my darling Mademoiselle Jondrette, I have a much prettier face," Courfeyrac argues. "That makes me easier to forgive."

Éponine's mouth twitches in amusement, and she gives in to her smile. "Very well, Monsieur Courfeyrac, I take pity on you just this once, since you are obviously delusional."

The Les Amis laugh and loudly applaud her, and Éponine takes a quick bow.

"I have to get going now," she says to Marius afterward.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow. I'll buy you a pastry to make up for this," he replies, the way he always does after one of these exchanges.

"Thank you." She reaches out to touch his shoulder, then turns and goes starts back down the stairs.

She halts, however, once she sees who's coming up them.

"Mademoiselle Jondrette," Enjolras says, eyes wide in surprise. He looks at her, then at the doorway behind her. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?" she grumbles, still annoyed at him for his remarks a few days earlier. "Dropping off a scarf for Marius, just like always."

She pushes her way past him, but he places a hand on her arm to stop her. "May I talk with you? Just for a second," he asks in a low voice.

"Why?" she asks, suspicious.

"I would like to apologize. My behavior when last we talked was inexcusable."

She gapes at him. "What?" Enjolras, a fully trained mage, is  _apologizing_  to her? He doesn't even like her!

Apparently he doesn't take that into consideration, though, since he takes a deep breath and looks her in the eye. "You were right; I know nothing of your circumstances, or what you have had to suffer, and it was deplorable of me to pass judgment on you as if I did. For that I am sorry."

She gives him a searching look, but he doesn't seem to be lying. Huh. "Apology accepted. Now would you let go of my arm?"

His mouth thins, but he does so. "Mademoiselle, I would also like to say that I wish you would listen to what I and the other Les Amis are trying to tell you—the new republic will need people like you if—"

And there's his ulterior motive. "Save your speeches for the crowds, Monsieur," she spits out. "Silver-tongues' lies don't work on me."

He cocks his head and examines her. "Why do you always call me that?" he eventually asks.

"It's what you are," she replies.

His mouth quirks. "Most people notice the cloak first. Or the shield pin. But you—you always focus on the fact that I'm an enchanter. Why is that?"

She remembers years spent watching her father charmspeak, conning people out of their possessions and their pride. She remembers Montparnasse smoothly talking his way out of any situation, magic lacing his voice.

She remembers golden words ringing in her ears, Azelma's slack face, Gavroche yelling for their mother, blood on her knees, and a scream trapped in her throat.

She speaks nothing of this to him. Instead, she says, "When you describe a wolf, you don't say how long its tail is, or talk of the color of its eyes. You say how fast it is, how sharp its teeth, how many men it's killed. You name why it's dangerous. That's why I call you enchanter."

With that, she leaves, feeling the weight of his gaze like a touch on her back, following her out into the night.

* * *

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you," they all sing, Monsieur Fauchelevent in a smooth baritone, Éponine in a husky alto, Azelma and the other girls in a sweet soprano, and Gavroche in horrendously off-key tones (which is on purpose, Éponine knows, since her brother can sing like an angel when he wants to). "Happy birthday, dearest Cosette, happy birthday to you!"

Cosette giggles and claps when they finish, eyes as bright as the twenty glowing candles on her cake. The party is a small one, consisting of just the celebrant, her father, a few nuns, and the Jondrettes, a testament to what Cosette deems is Monsieur Fauchelevent's "reluctance to socialize" and what Éponine personally classifies as "extreme over-protectiveness and paranoia." Had Éponine not helped him track his daughter down all those years ago and remained friends with her since, she doubts they would even be at this privileged gathering. It's being held at the convent itself, and earlier Cosette had generously distributed clothes and food to the beggars outside its walls—one of the few people Éponine knew who actually gave presents away on their own birthday.

"Now, blow out the candles!" demands Gavroche imperiously. "I want to eat the corner slice!"

Azelma elbows their brother. "You are incorrigible," she mutters.

"What does that mean?" he demands.

"I don't know, but it's what Madame Pierron calls her cat when he's gotten into the feathers, so it must be bad," Azelma replies.

Monsieur Fauchelevent chuckles and explains, "It means you will never change."

Gavroche looks pleased and puffs out his chest. "I like it!" he declares. "I'm incorrigible!"

"Young man," Sister Marie Abelard huffs, "that is hardly something to be proud of!"

The nuns laugh at his mulish expression, but Éponine merely rolls her eyes. Trust her brother to crow over his own stubbornness. "Blow out the candles and make a wish, Cosette—then Gav will be too busy stuffing his face to boast," she instructs the other girl, nudging her with her shoulder.

The blond, blue-eyed, delicate-looking young artisan complies, pursing her lips and putting out all the candles save one on the first try. She shakes her head, laughing. "There's always one I miss! Every year!"

"Ooh, can I blow it out, can I?" Gavroche asks eagerly, and Cosette gestures him to go ahead. Éponine is almost certain she does it on purpose, just to see the look on his face when he does so.

Soon the candles are put away and the cake is cut, with Gavroche greedily digging into his generous corner slice as Azelma instructs him to slow down, eating her own piece with the dainty movements she's learned from watching the fashion-conscious grisettes at the millinery. The nuns parcel up the rest of the cake, with a few of the younger ones that Cosette is close to arranging her presents by the table. Monsieur Fauchelevent watches the scene contentedly, and Cosette takes advantage of his distraction to pull Éponine a little ways away into the small alcove by the window to talk in privacy, activating the silencing wards set there for that very purpose.

"Sorry to steal you away from the party, but I feel like I haven't talked to you properly in weeks! How is the work at the hospital going?" Cosette asks. "The hours aren't too long, are they? I asked the doctors to put you in the children and women's section with me, but they felt that you would do better in the recovery wards."

Éponine shakes her head. "The hours are fine. Some of the patients can be a bit difficult, but then that's what the nuns have me and Sister Marie Abelard for," she says, referring to the cantankerous battle-axe of a nun who had reprimanded Gavroche earlier, and is quite skilled at silencing people with a single look of frosty displeasure. She and Éponine act as the last resort of the nurses and nuns who are too sweet-tempered to bully recalcitrant patients into following orders.

Cosette grins at her. "I heard you threatened Monsieur Seville by saying you would sign him up as a tester for the experimental medicines if he didn't lie down and rest."

Éponine snorts. "The man broke his leg in three places! I don't know what the hell he was thinking, walking around like nothing was wrong. Mon Dieu, even a child would know better. I don't know how you have the patience dealing with such people, Cosette."

The other girl shrugs. "I just remind myself that they are suffering, and that the Good Lord would wish us to care for each of them as His children, the way He cares for us. Besides," she says mischievously, "the patients are usually so cowed at the thought of being sent to you or Sister Marie Abelard that they obey us without complaint."

Éponine's mouth curves, the expression just this side of smug.

"Now, since you have a steadier job at the hospital, will you finally quit working at that awful tavern?" Cosette demands.

Éponine sighs. "No, Cosette. We've talked about this before—we need all the money we can earn, what with Gav's schooling and Zelma's apprenticeship fees on top of food and lodging."

Cosette's mouth puckers into a little moue of discontentment. "I still don't understand why you couldn't have moved in with us. We have plenty of room. Then you wouldn't even have to pay rent and work so much."

Éponine shoots her a wry look. No, she wouldn't understand, would she? Cosette had known hardship, she had known cruelty, she had held hands with hunger and danced with despair. She understood those things just as well as Éponine did, and had been introduced to them earlier, even if she hadn't been intimately acquainted with them for longer than the other girl.

But the fact of the matter was that she'd been rescued—rescued with love and kindness and sheltered in the arms and heart of Monsieur Fauchelevent, and it is because of this that she cannot understand. When she says to Éponine, "Come live with us," she is saying, "I will be your sister. I will give you a home. I will love you as I hope you love me." She does not see these things in terms of charity, in terms of owing and debt and things to be repaid. No, she sees it as love freely given, as love must always be. She thinks it is stupid for Éponine and her siblings to insist on living apart and paying their own way, when clearly Cosette's home will always be open to them, and when all the things she owns belongs just as surely to them as to herself.

After all, isn't everything she has been given to her by her father? And does she feel obligated to repay him in any way besides love and care? No. So Éponine should feel the same way, Cosette stubbornly insists.

It warms Éponine's heart at the same time it drives her crazy with annoyance.

"You've already done too much for us," Éponine says instead of trying to explain when she barely understands it herself, and knows only that it would be wrong to take everything her not-best friend offers so freely.

Cosette gives her an exasperated look, but before she can launch into a diatribe, a sudden burst of laughter draws their attention, and they glance over to see Gavroche balancing a cherry on his nose, Azelma and Monsieur Fauchelevent applauding him. Cosette smiles at the sight.

"I'm glad you found us again," she says quietly, changing the subject. "It's been…what, four years ago, now, since you came here? I think Papa and I would have been content without the three of you in our lives, but we would have been lonely, him especially. I think Gavroche reminds him of his old family."

Éponine blinks in surprise. "His old family?" She has never heard Monsieur Fauchelevent speak of any family besides Cosette's mother, and even then the mentions were brief, usually a wistful comment on how beautiful she had been and how much Cosette was growing to resemble her.

"Papa doesn't talk about them, but I know he lights candles after Mass for his sister and her children—three boys and a girl. They died before, you know, in the…in the purges," Cosette confesses in a low whisper.

Éponine barely manages to repress a shudder. The purges had happened years before she and Cosette were born, the result of the Mage Council deciding after the Reign of Terror that part of the reason the revolution had been so bloody was the aid of the elder race on the side of the rebels. They had rounded up the last of them and all of their part-human descendents and sent them to work in labor camps. Those who resisted were outright killed, and hundreds more died in the camps.

In France, at least, the elder race was no more, except for a few remnants here and there—children, women, and men whose wounds could heal in an instant, who had flesh that could never be cut, who possessed terrifying, monstrous strength.

Men like Monsieur Fauchelevent, who could lift a cart off of a man with his own bare hands, who could break strong, sturdy doors down with little effort, who could carry a girl and her two siblings as if they each weighed nothing. Monsieur Fauchelevent, who had been Monsieur Madeleine when Éponine first met him, and who had been some other unknown name before that, she was certain. Or perhaps not even a name…

That reminded her.

"Does Monsieur Fauchelevent's glamour need renewing?" she asks quietly.

Cosette gives a nod, and Éponine makes a note to remind her sister later. This, at least, is one small way they can repay the generosity of Cosette and her father. In addition, it would give them the excuse to drop by the Fauchelevents' home, where she could warn them about Javert in private.

Soon, the Mother Superior comes over to their alcove and gestures at them with a kindly smile. "Come now, Cosette, it is time to open your presents!"

The two girls get up and follow them, and Éponine watches her not best-friend open each of her gifts with a radiant smile, showing as much enthusiasm for their own paltry handkerchiefs as her father's golden locket.

"Thank you, Ponine!"she says with a hug. "Thank you, Zelma! Thank you, Gav! They're so lovely!"

Éponine observes her happy expression and fervently prays that this will not be the last time she sees it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endnote: Information on living expenses in 19th century France was taken from a website called daumier dot org slash 176 dot zero dot html (please believe me; I swear I did the research).
> 
> Anyway, we're glad you've read our work and we hope you have enjoyed/are enjoying/will continue to enjoy it. :)
> 
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